


Necromantic Housekeeping

by TF Grognon (gloss)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Creepy Fluff, Domesticity, Gen, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/TF%20Grognon
Summary: The dead guy can't make sandwiches, and it keeps dropping limbs, but together they're a household now. Griffin owes it that much.
Relationships: Necromancer & Revenant
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2020





	Necromantic Housekeeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GriegPlants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriegPlants/gifts).



The dead one shuffles up to meet Griffin when he returns from his errands. It holds a feather duster in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. It's wearing a pair of Ray-Bans and has styled its wig into soft spikes. 

"Thanks." Griffin stuffs the sandwich into his mouth to hold it so his hands are free to remove his coat and hat. The thing tries to help but Ray successfully ducks out of reach. Last thing he wants is a repeat of the "tangled in the scarf, one arm pulled off" disaster a couple days back.

"You look...interesting," Griffin says when he's finished his sandwich. It used pesto, not fruit jelly, and half a croissant, but the thing is trying and far be it from Griffin, the man who harrowed the thing back to the physical plane, to nitpick and kibitz mere sandwich details. "New shades? Gel in your hair?"

They're in the kitchen at the narrow table. It tried to pour Griffin some wine, but it's only eleven AM and, besides, it can't work the corkscrew very well. So Griffin fixed them each some instant cocoa.

The thing lows a hearty groan and pats the top of its head heavily. 

"Going for a whole 80s cool skater kid, I like it."

It nods a few times, but the skin on its neck starts to crack visibly and flake off. Griffin jumps up and holds its face in his hands — both to stop the movement and inspect the damage. He's reflected in the sunglass shades, a foreshortened little slip of a man.

"We'll moisturize you better, all right? That's my bad, I thought the OTC stuff would be fine, but you, my friend, are a very dry boy." He pats the thing's shoulder before sitting back down.

It wheezes a little in response. 

"No shame in that," Griffin replies. "Slather on some cocoa butter, you'll be good as —" Fuck. _Good as new_? No. "You'll feel like a —" _New man_? "You'll be fine."

It might be staring at him. With the sunglasses, it's impossible to tell. Without the sunglasses, it would still be difficult. This guy's eyelids were sewn down before burial, and they tore pretty badly when Griffin reanimated him and his eyes tried to fly open. Griffin has a couple bids up on Ebay and NecroNet for replacement eyeballs, both organic and synthetic, but so far no luck. In the interim, it has stuck a variety of vaguely circular objects into its sockets, from charcoal briquettes to kids' marbles from the dollar store.

Griffin sighs and reaches for the thing's hand. It's a large, heavy thing, the gray-slate skin dry and fragile as leather long uncared-for. Their fingers interlace and it rubs the pad of its thumb against Griffin's wrist.

"We need to get you a name."

It cocks its head and scoots its chair closer. The ratty Cowichan cardigan it has taken a liking is wrapped snugly across its broad chest. After a moment, it exhales a sound like the start of a song, a minor chord that trembles across Griffin's nerves. 

"Just need to figure out how to spell that," Griffin says, smiling, and the thing guffaws so loudly a few black moths fly from its mouth. Griffin lifts his mug of cocoa in a toast and after several moments of perplexity, the thing mirrors his action. They click mugs, cocoa sloshes over the cuff of its sweater, and Griffin hurries to get the wet wipes.

It's astonishing how quickly the new normal established itself. 

The thing is licking up mini marshmallows from the table, smacking its black lips happily, when Griffin returns. That's a much better method of clean-up, he realizes, far more sustainable and eco-friendly than disposable wipes.

"Good idea," he says and the thing mumbles cheerily.


End file.
